


Away from Crowds

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canine Chums, Canonical Character Death (off-screen), Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Parenthood, Slightly perturbed John, Supportive Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 11:16:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7932604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>‘Looks like my people want to talk to your people.’<i></i></i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Or: John, Sherlock and company.</i>
  </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Away from Crowds

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: There is nothing really spoiler-ish per say in this story; however, it was inspired by the first official photo to be released of Series 4 (I don’t want to spoil anyone needlessly who is choosing to stay completely spoiler-free, so scroll to the bottom to read what that picture contained). The rest is just pure speculation on my part. 
> 
> This has also been unbeta-ed, so feedback and constructive criticism would be very much welcomed. Got to say though, I really enjoyed writing this after months and months of struggling to write fanfic full-stop.

Part of John had felt…something like indignity, if he was honest with himself, at the fact that Sherlock had chosen another partner in his absence and that partner had turned out to be a dog. Was there, John had wondered rather pettily, any difference in the eyes of the detective? John had always followed Sherlock’s lead; so would a dog, it seemed. And _on_ a lead.

He didn’t know much about it; only that Toby had been brought in, the dog of a client, to help with the investigation while John had been busy changing nappies at home and then in the successful conclusion, Sherlock had been allowed to keep the dog and had accepted. John would have been surprised, except he had long noticed that his best friend seemed to have a certain weakness for such animals. He had heard the name Redbeard from Sherlock’s father – and something like the name had slipped from Sherlock’s lips on the night he was shot – he had seen a picture of little Sherlock with an Irish Setter and he had wondered. It was something to investigate – to ask about.

Still, despite his – rather irrational, he knew this – annoyance at being not-really-replaced-but-something-like-it (he wondered if the dog slept on his chair; his bed even!) he couldn’t help warming to Toby very quickly, even if the feeling wasn’t necessarily reciprocated on the first go. The bloodhound was an absolutely beautiful specimen and it was obvious that Sherlock was enamoured with him; John sat on his chair (tellingly hair-free and he felt guilty) and watched them in the kitchen, Toby moving around Sherlock’s feet, following him like a faithful, long-eared shadow and Sherlock patting him, the move automatic but frequent, murmurs of ‘good boy’ on his lips and giving him little titbits. The first time, John had been slightly concerned that Sherlock would give the dog something contagious, something that had been part of an experiment, maybe, in an ill-advised bout of absent-mindedness and he did a quick sweep of the kitchen when Sherlock wasn’t looking.  But there was nothing suggestive – in fact, all body-parts and some such had been packed away – hidden? John wondered.

In fact, when he stood in the doorway and looked, really looked, the kitchen was actually very clean. All surfaces were clear and where the thumbs in the fridge and the eyeballs in the plastic Tupperware had gone, there were two bowls for Toby, complete with a mat, one for food and the other from which he eagerly slopped water, leaving drool everywhere, including John’s shoes as the dog wandered past him.

Still, all things considered, Toby didn’t seem to _mind_ him. He let John pet him on the first day – which felt like the equivalent of an awkward handshake – sniffed him over thoroughly with something like suspicion and although John should have felt embarrassed and a little irritated, he was actually quite touched that the dog cared enough about this territory, about Sherlock, to inspect John thoroughly and ensure he was safe enough to come into the flat – even if John felt like shouting that he had bloody well lived there for nearly two years.

And yet things… things hadn’t been the way that they used to be between himself and Sherlock. Marriage had done its part – could change a man. And John had allowed it; but after Mary shot Sherlock, he found himself left awake more than once with the realisation that he should have made more of an effort.

‘I should have let him dance with us at our wedding,’ he finally confessed three days in, during his daily dose of Sherlockian hospitality although Sherlock himself had actually popped out of the flat. There was no denying it: John was going to move back in, it was only a matter of time now. He knew that he and Sherlock were both just pretending that these were supportive visits, somewhere safe for John to be after Mary’s death and he appreciated that, deep down under the shift of grief. But his clothes had snuck into the laundry; were hanging upstairs in the old cupboard. His favourite mug – that he hadn’t taken with him – was being used. And there was a spare toothbrush in the bathroom.

Toby was sitting opposite – on Sherlock’s chair! – and gazing at John with a kind of bland niceness, simply blinked at him, eyes warm and dull, and listened. Or gave the impression of listening, anyway and that was good enough for John. He wasn’t sure he really had anyone else to talk to about it, if he was honest; Mrs Hudson was out shopping (and had been…just a little cool with John in recent times. He knew why; knew that he had to sit down with her and sort it out. It wasn’t good). Lestrade was busy trying to help prevent a national panic, and Molly was… well, she was lovely, but. She had always felt more like… like Sherlock’s friend somehow, than hers. Knowing that Sherlock had entrusted the details of his death to her, rather than to John, had made John sore; of course, why not pick the girl you rejected several times over, however unknowingly, he had thought bitterly, rather than the man who ensured you didn’t starve yourself to death and shot at the people shooting at you.

But the details of Sherlock’s fake suicide had long-faded and all that remained was a gladness that the man was alive and breathing and _here,_ most importantly, particularly now. Besides, John really didn’t want to spend the rest of his life being angry; it was pointless. And unfair, to both of them.

‘I should have done,’ he told Toby now; the dog shifted and lay himself down, curled up against the cushion, his front paws dangling over the edge. ‘I could have asked him and I let him leave. I didn’t know,’ he added, hastily; there was something in Toby’s beady gaze that seemed almost judgmental. ‘I just… I don’t know. It was stupid, I get that now. After everything he did. He taught me to dance, you know,’ he added, on a whim. Toby’s eyes shifted; perhaps he didn’t care but it felt good to get it all out. ‘And he saved a man’s life. So, yeah. I should have looked out for him; I should have made him stay.’

The self-recrimination, honest on his tongue for the first time, sent him into a silent tailspin; he had finally said it out loud, after wondering over and over again what he could have done because the idea of Sherlock leaving a wedding, silently, sadly, maybe overwhelmed by everything, perhaps chasing the idea that he wasn’t needed, made John sad as well. And that long silence afterwards had spoken for itself.

Was it too late to fix things?

Toby shifted upwards again and John raised his eyebrows at him, expecting the dog to be bored with all this pouring-your-heart out debacle and that he would shuffle off to the kitchen in search of food. Instead, Toby shuffled down off the chair, but then he surprised John by meandering across to him; automatically, John leaned forward and Toby burrowed into the gap between his legs and rested his head there.

‘Hello,’ John blinked, wondering about the dog’s intent for a second, before scolding himself for the thought and petting his head, stroking flawless fur. Toby hummed, in the way that all dogs seemed to do and John found himself starting to relax; Toby’s hair was soft in its shortness, and his ears were lovely to scratch and the warm weight of him seemed to take something away from John; he felt less heavy.

‘A-ruh-ruh-ruh-ruh,’ he growled gently, leaning forwards to cradle Toby’s head and stroke his back vigorously; Toby’s tail wagged as he whuffed into John’s shirt and it made John feel _better,_ somehow.

And to be honest, well, he had always rather wanted a dog.

*

After that bonding session – Sherlock had walked in on the tail-end of it (hah) and found John feeding Toby half a digestive, his face open and relaxed in the way of a dog-lover, unmistakeably cooing – John brought his daughter around.

Olivia was six months old by this point and typical of the Holmesian way of helping, she had been in the care of a nursery during the day that was also attended by many of the children of Mycroft’s most trusted workers, and picked up by Anthea at the day’s end. John felt guilty, as though he was leaving the care of his daughter to someone else during the day, only pulling his weight in the mornings and evenings back at the flat that had been his and Mary’s.

‘Don’t,’ Sherlock told him, watching John rock his daughter a little at the top of the stairs, murmuring to her softly, trying to get her accustomed to the new surroundings. John raised an eyebrow in his direction – not annoyed, more of a resigned how-did-you-know and Sherlock came towards him, holding out a toy; a brand new stuffed bumblebee. Sheepish yet grateful, John accepted it and gives it to his daughter, who grasped it and took it in her tiny hands, staring at the bright colours of the wings and stripes.  

‘You need time for yourself right now,’ Sherlock threw over his shoulder, even as Toby clattered up to say hello. ‘It’s only two weeks since we cremated Mary and to use the old phrase, you need to take care of you.’

John smiled sadly to himself at that, watching Sherlock walk away and then glanced at his daughter, who was busy chewing on one of the bee’s fuzzy antennae. 

‘Your Uncle Sherlock’s got a lot more sentiment than he lets on,’ he told her; still needed to twist the man’s arm into becoming godfather, but they’d get to that later; there were more important things to sort out right now. He kissed the top of his daughter’s head, protective, as Toby lingered – with a telling carefulness – at his feet.

‘Hello, boy,’ he greeted; lowering his free hand to pet him and getting a licked palm in return – oddly ticklish and it made him chuckle, before letting the dog lead the way into the flat. Closing the door behind him, he noticed that Olivia had let the antennae drop from her mouth and was staring at Toby, her eyes – big and blue – fixed and fascinated.

‘So,’ John  threw out into the silence, wandering over to his chair; Sherlock was perusing something on his computer-screen and disaffecting interest. John, however, knew that though any second now he was going to want to scoop up Liv (a nickname he hated; _no, John, don’t call her that_ ) and whisk her off to show her the microscope.

‘Yes,’ Sherlock said then, snappily, and swivelled on the chair to look at them both, _hello Watsons, it is I, Sherlock Holmes._ It should have been frightening, was a bit - more than anything, though, it just made John want to laugh. And that was a good feeling.

‘Mrs Hudson’s willing to babysit,’ Sherlock told him, playing with a pen and lounging in the seat, looking rather like a bit of a twat, albeit a friendly and hospitable one. ‘And Olivia can stay at the nursery for the time-being, if that makes you happy. Both of you,’ he added, pointedly and John, rocking Olivia on his lap, made a hum of assent, as he pressed his lips, his cheek, to the top of her head. ‘Your room is still available, obviously, and my parents have an old cot.’

John glanced at him. ‘Your cot?’

Sherlock’s eyes swiveled away. ‘Shut up.’

John grinned, shoulders shaking. ‘We’ve got our own, thanks.’ It was said without malice, though he appreciated the thought. ‘You’ll have to help me bring that one here, but, yeah…Good to have a spare, I suppose.’

‘That cot you have is cheap and will fall apart in four months,’ Sherlock told him bluntly, ‘My one – my _parents’_ one – has lasted a lot longer. It’s not charity, either,’ he added, warning, as John opened his mouth to argue the point.

John pursed his lips, cross, silently debating. ‘Ten quid says my cot will last longer than four months,’ he offered finally. 

‘Excellent, then that’s all settled.’ Sherlock stands and claps his hands together. ‘And that’s another ten pounds for the homeless population, thankyou very much, John.’ He sent him a smile that was entirely too pleased, before turning on his heel. ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea and then you can go and get the essentials. If it helps, I know a man with a van who owes me a favour.’

John knew better than to ask and watched Sherlock bound into the kitchen, not missing the slight spring in the man’s step. Perhaps it was egotistical, but it felt like the equivalent of a kid who had been told his best friend could sleep over.   _Nice to know we’re wanted, really,_  he thought, glancing at his daughter. This wasn’t something everyone would do – but of course, Sherlock wasn’t everyone.

For her part, Olivia had left the bumblebee completely alone now and he helped her sit up on his lap; let her take in the room; the bookshelves, the mantlepiece, the chairs. John suddenly noticed that the skull had been put away, as had the stuffed bat. _You sentimental sod, Sherlock._

‘This’ll be our home for a while, darling,’ he murmured to Olivia; she began wriggling and squirming in his arms, reaching out to the room and John grinned.

‘Want to get down, do you?’ he asked; Olivia had been learning to crawl, slowly and she needed all the practice she could get. John got up off the chair again and using one hand to steady himself – leg had been twinging, not much, but twinging – he lowered his daughter to the floor to sit at his feet so she could take it in, become familiar with the space.

At that precise moment, Toby came back through, having retreated to the kitchen when it became obvious the humans had things to talk about that did not concern him. Olivia immediately reached out both hands and John blinked as she made a gabbled noise that sounded like _ruh-ruh_ – rather like the noises he made; she wanted the dog.

‘Woof, woof,’ he prompted, pointing to Toby and she turned her head to gaze up at him, beaming at the noise, even as Toby approached, meandering over to have a look at the tiny human currently sitting on the carpet. John paused; bloodhounds were gentle enough and Toby was a good boy, he knew that, but he was also a big dog.

He watched Toby sniff around Olivia’s feet, her gaze intent upon him - and suddenly the dog was pushing his head forwards and _licking_ her – there was no other word for it – right over.

 _‘Toby,’_ John scolded in irritation, stooping down to steady his daughter back onto her bottom; Sherlock had dashed back through and put a hand to Toby’s collar, with a gentle but firm, _‘No,_ Toby.’ John, even as he pushed his heart back down into his chest from his mouth - there was no danger, but this was his _daughter_ \- noted that Sherlock was watching Olivia, watching John, with a sudden, slightly guarded expression.

Olivia, however, was entirely unaffected by such an experience; she gave a small giggle and once more reached out both hands towards the bloodhound, before putting her hands together, another sound, unmistakable this time, of ‘ra-ra’ escaping her mouth with some insistence – _again, please._ Toby, who had let himself be tugged backwards by Sherlock’s hand on his collar, gave what seemed to be a rather smug yawn and dropped to the carpet, putting his head on his paws and watching the small human with no sign of hostility. He eyed John from his paws with a shift of the eyes that seemed to state, quite pointedly, ‘See? She likes me.’

‘Well,’ John lowered himself back to the carpet; Olivia was still reaching for Toby, her eyes completely fixated on him once more and Sherlock gave an amused chuff that didn’t mask his relief. Olivia looked up at him, taking in her Uncle Sherlock all over again – John was pleased to see that when it came to him at least, there was no sign of stranger anxiety – and then gave a little smile and turned her attention back to the dog, before shifting madly.

She wanted to crawl, John recognised and he helped her move onto her front, onto her tummy. Crawling was still an ongoing thing with Olivia; she was still mastering it and John had, in a quiet panic, gone through several internet searches, looked through several books before finally caving and asking both Lestrade and Mike for their personal experiences of fatherhood, after which he was reassured that this was nothing to worry about. Every baby was different; Olivia was making progress and that was all that mattered.

Now, snug on her stomach, she shifted her legs and arms; for a moment, she seemed to mirror Toby’s stance before her legs kicked against the carpet and she began to attempt to push herself forward on her tummy, trying valiantly to move herself closer to the bloodhound. There was silence in the room as both Sherlock and John watched her progress; there was no mistaking Sherlock’s fascination as he watched her move.

‘Looks like my people want to talk to your people,’ John commented finally, breaking the spell and Sherlock glanced his way.

‘Hm,’ he nodded and then he bent down to pat Toby’s back, perhaps just to give himself something to do as Olivia continued to shuffle on her stomach. She raised her head and looked up at Sherlock, who after all was in her line of vision, gazing slightly open-mouthed in the way all babies did before she gave him a smile.

Sherlock had never had a baby look at him like that before – he had never really had _any_ children in close proximity before, save Archie, the banker’s son who gave him the tie-pin and on one occasion, Mike Stamford’s children. His daughter had been the spitting image of her father – all round face and glasses, brown hair and the same affability that Sherlock hadn’t found in a lot of people.

Who would Olivia be like? he wondered. Like her mother, or like her father? She didn’t seem to mind him at any rate and she looked in his direction a lot, smiled at him even, so maybe that answered the question?

‘Erm,’ John gestured to Toby, suddenly looking a little embarrassed, a little sheepish, ‘Can I ask, have you – ‘

Sherlock huffed, insulted, putting a protective hand to his dog’s back. ‘Toby does _not_ have fleas and Mrs Hudson vacuums. And as you can see, he’s gentle. It’s what made him so useful when I first met him.’

John nodded, looking at them both: the dog and detective, gazing back at the doctor and his daughter, one of whom was looking right at the other, who in turn didn’t seem to mind the attention.

‘Don’t worry,’ Sherlock added. ‘He won’t hurt her; we’re not going to be stupid enough to leave them alone together and bloodhounds are known to be good with children as long as they’re properly trained, which Toby is. As long as we take the relevant precautions…’

It was a list; something he’d obviously thought through beforehand, in clear recognition of the fact that his bloodhound may be a slight obstruction to John’s return with a baby in tow.

‘We’ll make it work,’ John assured; as he watched Olivia move all the more determinedly forward towards the dog, who didn’t seem in the least intimidated or bothered by her presence. ‘It’ll be good for her to learn how to treat animals early, anyway.’ He wasn’t about to ask Sherlock to give up one friend for another – certainly not after everything else, especially  not after Toby had clearly helped Sherlock to stay steady when John hadn’t been there to do it and Sherlock threw him a smile, looking a little more relaxed about the whole thing. John threw a quick, reassuring wink back his way and then wondered when Sherlock’s habits had rubbed off on him.

‘We’ll sort it,’ he said and it felt like that was that, decision officially made.

‘Yes,’ Sherlock agreed and they left it there and simply watched Olivia and Toby for a minute more.

*

_If only I could have a puppy_

_I’d call myself so very lucky_

_Just to have some company_

_To share a cup of tea with me_

_I’d take my puppy everywhere_

_Lalalalala – I wouldn’t care_

_We’ll stay away from crowds_

_With signs that say no dogs allowed_

_Oh we – I know he’d never bite me_

_We – I know he’d never bite me_

  * **The Puppy Song, Harry Nilsson**



**Author's Note:**

>  _Ending Author’s Notes:_  
> 
> The moment where Olivia is knocked over by Toby was actually inspired by a real-life occurrence a couple of years ago, when my then-baby niece, sitting at my feet, was essentially ‘licked’ over by the family Labrador, in his misguided attempt to be friendly – like John, I had to stoop down to set her to rights! And yes, I do recognise that Olivia is also the female heroine from Basil the Great Mouse Detective; given that John Watson is implied to have Scottish routes with the name ‘Hamish’ I thought it made sense; plus I think Olivia Watson has quite a nice ring to it. 
> 
> For those who may be wondering, the Puppy Song is from the opening credits of You’ve Got Mail, which is one of my favourite films. ^_^
> 
> Last but not least, in case you wanted to know, the Series 4 picture mentioned in the introduction shows Sherlock with a bloodhound, who may or may not be called Toby; I don't know. Although Molly also has a cat called Toby, so things could potentially get confusing!


End file.
